


Landmarks

by Nisaki



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Sam, Breathplay, Bruises, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Rough Sex, Sam is not okay, Stanford Era (Supernatural), Top Dean Winchester, Wincest - Freeform, sam is 18
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:27:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23022463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nisaki/pseuds/Nisaki
Summary: Sam collects bruises, they're the only thing Dean's given him that he's taking along with him.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 19
Kudos: 206





	Landmarks

**Author's Note:**

> Ah this was so fun! My first time writing nonlinear, and it killed me but it was really fun. 
> 
> Thank you to [laughablelament](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughableLament/pseuds/LaughableLament/works?fandom_id=27&page=2), you're the best. I love you.

**Aug. 25th.**

The room is small, dusty and empty. Two bare beds, a window with no curtains, one closet to the side. Two night stands shoved side by side between the beds. 

It’s small and yet, Sam feels like the space will swallow him whole. Too big. No Dean. 

Sam bites down on his bottom lip, relishes the pain that comes from the cut on its side. He still hasn't looked in a mirror. He can still feel them. Doesn’t need to look yet. 

The things he owns are too little, they barely cover one shelf in the closet. Sam sits on his bed, closer to the door. He smiles, pulls at the cut on the side of his mouth, pokes at it with his tongue, thinks about Dean’s teeth as they sank in and made him bleed. 

He gets up, mentally listing what he needs to buy. He needs a job first. More clothes. Definitely new sheets. 

A photo frame. 

**March 12th.**

Bobby tells him about it at the end of February, but it’s over two weeks later until he has it in his hands. 

The envelope is heavy. Almost unbearably so, and he thinks about taking it outside and burning it and never considering the thought again. His hands shake as he opens it. One look at the words has his breath stuttering in his chest as his heart tries to beat out of it. 

Dean barges in, whistling a cheerful tune and Sam jumps and shoves the envelope under the bed. 

He’s in. They want him. Full ride to Stanford. 

His eyes sting, Dean notices. 

“You all right, kiddo?” There’s concern in his green eyes, and Sam wonders if Dean will kiss him goodbye when it’s time for him to leave. 

**Sept. 1st.**

Sam’s first class is blur. He sits in the last row, and doesn’t think. He’s slept six hours in the past four days, the rest of the time he was going through his mental list of needs and must dos. He has a plan. He applied for a job in the library and got it, he met his roommate, they hung curtains. The guy, Sam can’t recall his name, had asked him about the picture that he’d placed on his nightstand, and Sam had felt his stomach drop, something curling in and snarling. 

He remembers setting it face down, giving his back to the guy and not talking to him again. 

The same guy waves at him when the class is over, his eyes trailing down Sam’s neck, settling in on what Sam knows is an ugly, black and blue bruise. Fingers shaped. He gives Sam a hesitant smile, looking at the healing cut on Sam’s lips, he’s searching for more damage, eyes darting up and down and Sam has the overwhelming desire to lift his sleeves, show him the similar fingers mark on his wrists. He smiles, a pang in his chest because he’s not feeling the pain from his lip anymore. 

The guy waits for him, awkward and fidgety. Sam doesn’t want to talk, but he’s here for a clean start. Normal. Normal is friends, classes and no hunting.

No Dean. 

“Sam Winchester.” He offers a hand, and the guy takes it with a smile.

“Brady.”

**April 1st.**

Texas sun beats down on them, and despite it being only 77 degrees, Sam feels like they’re being roasted.

Dean’s decided the best thing to do is wash the car. It’s a hot Sunday afternoon, they’ve got nothing to do and Dean has the brilliant idea to play with water. Sam refuses, stays inside the house (if they can call the dump they’re in a house) and checks how much money he has. 

He’s taking any jobs he can. John has encouraged him to help Dean with their financial situation, but Sam isn’t doing it to help. Dean doesn’t ask, he silently works and hustle when he can and Sam is grateful that the little he makes isn’t taken from him. He tried to split the money between savings and the house, but when he gave it to Dean, his brother ruffled his hair and shook his head. _“I got it covered, Sammy.”_

Sam thinks by the time August rolls around, he’ll have enough for a good start, books and new clothes. Meals until he finds a job in Palo Alto. 

“Sammy!” Dean calls. Sam knows his brother will do something stupid, like direct the hose at him and get him soaked, so he changes into an old t-shirt and threadbare jeans that he’s cut down to shorts when they became small.

As expected, the second he steps close, Dean sprays him with water; laughing. Sam scowls at him, but Dean’s grin is blinding. He wiggles his eyebrows at Sam and places his head under the water, on his arms and chest, shaking his hair like a dog as his t-shirt turns translucent. 

Sam can’t veer his gaze. 

Dean’s wet hair looks dark, like Sam’s. Water drops slide down his neck, drip from his chin. His t-shirt sticks to his body, see through, and clinging to his strong chest and small waist. Sam licks his lips. 

He walks like he's compelled by a greater force, something pulling him to Dean until he’s standing in front of him. He’s only an inch shorter than Dean now, just a tip of his chin and tiptoeing. Dean blinks at him, Sam steps closer. 

He tastes the water first, feels the gasp. His eyes close, and he lets out a hurt sound. Behind his lids, he sees a white envelope, a deadline to his time with Dean. Sam cuts the kiss, his heart drumming protest against his ribs.

Their lips are still touching, Dean’s eyes are wide. The wetness makes his lashes thicker, and the sun makes his cheeks red, frickles standing out. 

“April fools…” It’s not as sure and amused as it should be to pass as a prank. Dean stares him down, the heat of his gaze scalding. He’s half expecting the water to sizzle off of his skin. 

Dean grips his hair, yanks him closer. Sam’s breath hitches, and Dean growls, smashes their lips again. Sam snaps. His arms around Dean’s shoulders, he grips his wet t-shirt and clings, tiptoeing to push himself harder into the kiss. Dean keeps one hand in his hair, the other on his hip, fingers digging in, painful and wonderful. He moans into the kiss, opens his mouth and gives it all up. His knees buckle, and he’s only up because Dean is holding him. He feels his bones melting, until he’s nothing but a rag doll. 

Dean pushes him back, both hands gripping Sam’s wasit now, lifts him up, puts him over the hood of the Impala. Sam groans, wraps his legs around Dean’s waist, and his arms around his neck. 

“Dean,” he breathes. Dean’s eyes are closed, his lips curved up in a soft smile. 

“April’s Fool?” he asks against Sam's jaw, licks under his ear, then sucks the lobe in. Sam hisses out the No, strangled and breathless, just like the moans that follow as Dean attaches his lips to Sam’s neck and sucks. 

“Dean, the water.” 

“What?” Dean pulls back. He’s out of breath and gorgeous and Sam regrets his care for water waste. 

“The water.” 

Dean gapes at him and Sam’s cheeks heat up. He looks down, watches Dean moving away to turn off the faucet. Sam bites his lip, wonders if that’s all he’s gonna get. The sound of shuffling feet makes him turn, Dean is fidgeting, not quite meeting his eyes. He looks small and scared, waiting. 

Sam’s heart constricts, and he reaches out. Dean smiles, runs to him and scoops him up into his arms. They both laugh. Sam swings his legs as Dean carries him to their room.

Later in the shower, Sam catches sight of the red marks on his neck. He presses down and they hurt. His dick hardens. 

**Aug. 28th.**

His roommate tells him that he won’t sleep in the dorm until classes start, and so for another night, Sam lies down in a room with his lone breath echoing in it. Although it’s less empty now, there’s nothing he wants to keep but the set-down picture of his brother that he can’t bring himself to share with the world. A hysterical laugh bubbles up in his chest, breaking something in him on its way out. The sound is horrible, scratches his ears but he can’t stop, he laughs until tears well in his eyes and his laughs turn to sobs. 

He turns to his side, trying to soothe the ache expanding in him, but to no avail. It burns up and he can’t draw breath, his tears acidic and his voice hoarse. Closing his eyes brings back memories that seem far gone, and he clutches over his heart, pressing down with the heel of his hand with no hope that it’d dull the pain. 

He swallows, a faint smile makes it to his face at the trace of soreness in his neck muscles. He traces the bruises with his fingers, presses down and hisses at the sharp pain. Yes. God, yes, they still hurt. They’re still there. He pushes down harder, flashes of Dean’s hands choking him make him whimper, and wraps his fingers around his throat and squeeze. It’s not cutting his air out like Dean’s hold, but the ghost of it makes him gasp and writhe. 

His dick hardens in his sweats and he chokes out a moan at the feeling of his touch. He doesn’t waste time, pressing on his bruises as he jerks his dick, hard and fast. It’s dry, it’s good and fucked up and if he squeezes his eyes shut and concentrates, he can feel the phantom warmth of Dean _moving on top of him. Cutting off his air, fingers like iron around his throat and a kiss so hard it reopens the cut on his bottom lip, Dean’s teeth sinking in like he’s seeking blood and Sam tries to moan but he can’t. Dean’s dick hard and hot and perfect, moving inside of him, pounding into him. Dean’s hand on his hip, keeping him in place and Sam…_

He comes hard, muscles seizing and shaking. He’s still trying to get more of that delicious pain, because nothing else can cover up the ache in his chest that’s far more terrible than any bruise hopes to be. 

He doesn’t bother to get up and wash, he wipes himself with the sweats and drags the covers over him and thinks about how wrong they smell. New. 

He stares at the flipped photo frame, and then at his phone, drifting off to the idea of calling Dean and having him actually answer. 

**Sept. 12th.**

The bruises are gone. 

There’s nothing on his skin, not even a trace of brown. He was covered by the marks Dean had left, but they’ve disappeared and left him with nothing. 

What remains is clear, unblemished skin and the scars he’d never wanted. He should’ve gotten a scar, should’ve handed Dean a dagger and asked him to cut deep, carve his name onto Sam’s flesh. It would’ve been a red, angry line by now, and the skin around it would still feel tender. 

**Aug. 26th.**

Sam wakes up to the sun streaming through the window, filling up the small space. He gives his back to it, and thinks that the curtains he’s buying should be thick and dark so the sun won’t wake him up if he can sleep in. 

He groans as he turns over, body wonderfully sore. He breathes in deep, smiles as the dull ache expands with his inhale. 

His ass is still raw, he’s limping a bit. When he clenches down the muscles there, pain shoots up his spine, less sharp than yesterday but still there and he feels relief coursing through him. Another day with this, another day with the reminder of Dean’s touch. 

The showers are empty, the students who are here all have classes already and he’s the only one hanging in the showers at eleven in the morning. He’s thankful for it, doesn’t like the idea of the stalls being occupied when he’s here. At least he has some time to himself. 

Stripping down in front of the many mirrors is something he needs more than the shower, and he lets out a relieved sigh as he takes in his state. Blue and purple cover him, dotting his chest like floating petals, around his neck like a choker. Fingers on his hips, and his wrists. Even his ankles, and the backs of his knees. He cranes his neck to the side, takes in the pretty purple over his adam’s apple.

_“It looks like I’m wearing jewelry, Dean. I want one around my thigh.”_

He’s never claimed he’s okay. 

**Aug. 23rd.**

There's something building up in him. With every clueless smile Dean gives him, every sweet, mindless-of-time kiss. Like they have ages and Sam's bus is leaving tomorrow.

Desperation, or guilt. Not enough of either of them for regret. 

His heart feels near to bursting all the time, the clock ticks in his ears and he avoids eye contact and seeks more touches. 

He should tell Dean, explain to him. Beg him to come along. 

It’s a lost cause, because John is here and Dean won’t ever not choose their father, even when the other choice is Sam. Sam has been set aside for all of his life, and he can’t bring himself to ask this. This rejection will kill him, he’d rather regret the maybe. 

Dean pesters him during lunch, asks too many things about why Sam isn’t eating or why he’s brooding and why and why and why. Sam’s nothing makes Dean’s eyes dim. 

“Dean, I…”

“Yeah?”

Dean looks like he’s hanging on to every word, and Sam’s chest constricts. He isn’t brave enough to tell Dean the truth, but he can ask for one more thing from him. That’s how selfish Sam is. 

He moves closer to Dean, takes his hand and guides him to their room, Dean doesn’t protest.

Dean looks at him with a small smile as Sam strips his clothes, then Dean's. He lets Sam push him to the bed, places his hands on Sam's thighs when Sam straddles him, opens his mouth for Sam's kiss like he has no care in the world and nowhere else to be.

"Dean," Sam whines. Dean smirks, a glint in his eyes.

"Yeah, Sammy?" He kisses down Sam's neck, and Sam groans, pushes himself closer to Dean.

"Harder," he says. Dean doesn't hesitate, his teeth sinks into the flesh he was kissing, and he gnaws and sucks marks into the curve of Sam's neck. Sam arches into him, lets out a breathy sound and starts rocking against Dean. Dean gets rougher, his hands gripping Sam's hip tight, helping him grind their dicks together.

"Dean, come on. _Harder_."

"Sam, you'll get hurt," Dean warns, but he's already biting over Sam's shoulder like he wants to bruise, and Sam gasps and tries to get more.

"Yes, fuck yes, Dean. _Hurt me_."

Dean growls, flips them over and spreads Sam's legs, burying his face where his thigh meets torso, breathing fast like he's trying to calm down. But Sam doesn't want him to, he wants him riled up, and wild, and furious. He wants him to go insane and leave marks and marks. Ones that'll stay, ones he can press over and be here, be Dean's.

He grips Dean's hair, yanks his head up so they're locking gazes. Dean's eyes are glassy, hazed over and his mouth is so red.

"Mark me up, big brother. I want everyone to know I'm yours."

The kiss is brutal, Dean uses his teeth and Sam moans for it, he hooks his arms around Dean's neck, keeps the kiss up, whimpers as the taste of blood fills his mouth and relishes the sting of the cut that Dean's made. Dean doesn't let up, he takes Sam's bottom lip into his mouth and sucks hard and Sam knows Dean's tasting his blood, like he's devouring him for real and it makes him crazy. He bucks his hips, gets a second of friction on his dick, then Dean's hands are there, fingers in a death grip over his hip bones. It hurts, a delicious pain shooting through him and he moans for it. Fights only to be pinned down harder.

Dean's fingers are searing, like a brand. Sam wants them everywhere.

He brushes his knuckles against Dean’s fingers. "Put them in my mouth, Dean." He wants to taste them, feel the ridges and calluses on the soft of his tongue, gets them wet so Dean can fuck him with them. "Dean, Dean."

Dean looks at him like he's going to eat him whole, Sam feels flames on his skin as Dean drags his gaze up. He lets his mouth fall open, puts his tongue out and Dean groans and shoves two of his fingers inside. Sam moans around them, sucks like he's starving for it and he _is_. He thinks about how he's leaving tomorrow, how Dean won't even look at him when he knows and he bites down and sucks harder. His hands wrap around Dean's wrist, pushes Dean's fingers into his throat, chokes himself on them, gags and coughs and doesn't let Dean take them out. Eyes tear up, he's drooling, the salt on his tongue makes him feel like he's drinking vodka, just as inebriating, and he needs so much more of it. More of Dean and the breathlessness and the pain.

Dean threads the fingers of his other hand in Sam's hair, forces his head back. Sam gasps, lets Dean's fingers out and Dean replaces them with his tongue and lips. Sam cants his ass up, asking without words and Dean gets it. Shoves two fingers inside, wet with nothing but spit and finally, Sam's full.

"Yes," he hisses. Dean screws his fingers in, finds Sam's sweet spot and massages, and Sam fucks his hips down, relentless and greedy.

Dean breaks the kiss and stares down at him and Sam wonders what he looks like to Dean. He feels desperate, unhinged and needy. He knows his hair is messed, his lips swollen, his eyes teary. He can feel the wetness on his lashes as he blinks up at Dean.

"Choke me," he almost laughs, he already sounds choked. But it's not enough, he wants Dean's gorgeous hands around his neck, controlling his very breath, he wants to not breathe unless Dean allows him to. So completely under Dean's mercy, so wonderfully owned.

"What's gotten into you?" Dean whispers, his breath hot on Sam's chin. Plants a kiss there and scraps his teeth against the line of Sam's jaw. Sam throws his head back, licks his lips. He's ready to beg, but Dean captures his mouth in a long kiss, takes his breath in another way and Sam can do nothing but surrender.

Dean's fingers are still inside him, and he clenches down on them and whines into Dean's mouth. He wants everything at once, doesn't think he can handle it if Dean refuses, if this is a line Dean isn't willing to cross. Dean breaks the kiss but keeps their lips touching, so close Sam can smell nothing but him, feel nothing but the heat of his skin and the sweat dripping down his neck.

"Please," he says, lips catching on Dean’s. Dean nods, their noses brushing together. He reaches for the bottle of lube, and Sam wants to ask him to discard it but he knows Dean will never take him dry so he grits his teeth. Dean coats his dick, but he doesn't prepare Sam more. He wipes his hands on the sheet, grabs Sam on the hip with one hand and under the knee with the other. Pushes Sam's leg up until it touches his chest, tightens his fingers enough that Sam feels them bruising. He moans, Dean fucks in, one thrust and he's all the way inside. He doesn't wait or give Sam time to adjust, just screws his hips in and out, pounds him so hard Sam knows he'll limp tomorrow. He can't wait. Dean arranges Sam's legs around his waist, leans down and finally places his hand on Sam's throat. Gentle at first, just brushes of his thumb over Sam's hammering pulse, then harder.

Sam loses his breath, Dean's pinning him down with his whole body, moving on top of him. Cutting off his air, fingers like iron around his throat and a kiss so hard it reopens the cut on his bottom lip, Dean’s teeth sinking in like he’s seeking blood and Sam tries to moan but he can’t. Dean’s dick hard and hot and perfect, moving inside of him, pounding into him. Dean’s hand on his hip, keeping him in place and Sam loses himself in the feeling. His head fuzzy and his vision swims. He's spasming all over, muscles locking up and relaxing. Black dots in his vision, and suddenly air fills his lung, relieves the burning. He gets in two breaths, Dean cuts the third off, his eyes intent on Sam's and that's all it takes for him to come.

Dean moans, lets go of his throat to mold fingers of both hands between Sam's ribs. They fit like puzzle pieces, and his blood sings when Dean grips there too, bruises on his chest. He spreads his legs wider, digs his nails into Dean's back and moans as Dean fucks into him harder.

Cupping Dean's cheeks, he guides him into a kiss that Dean keeps gentle, then he feels the warmth of Dean's release filling him up.

Before Dean can move away, Sam crosses his ankles behind Dean's back, forcing him to stay in place. Dean smiles at him, leaning into Sam's hands.

"Again," Sam breathes.

"Sammy, I can't get it up this fast."

"Kiss me until you do."

Dean shakes his head, exasperated but fond. They kiss until they're breathless and their lips hurt, then Dean pulls out and flips him over. He holds Sam's wrists beside his head, pinning him down to the bed and enters him from behind. Fucks him so hard Sam nearly passes out by the time they're done.

He's covered with beautiful red marks that will purple up next morning and his ass is burning. No way he's forgetting this anytime soon. They take a nap, tangled up together, and later, Dean drags him to the shower, claiming that Sam is way past the stage of wiping himself clean. Sam allows Dean to pamper him, closes his eyes and sighs at the feeling of Dean's fingers massaging his scalp. It's such a waste that these gentle touches won't leave a mark for Sam to press later.

Once they're done, they dry themselves side by side, and Sam catches sight of his reflection in the mirror over the sink. He can see himself down to the navel, and he smiles. Dean steps in behind him, places one hand over the shape of his fingers on Sam's hip, and uses the other to slowly turn Sam's head to the side, fingers tender on Sam's chin.

Dean's eyes trail the vicious blooming bruises on Sam's neck, and he hisses like they’re hurting _him_.

"It looks really bad, I --"

"It's beautiful," Sam breathes, plastering his back to Dean's chest.

"Sammy..."

“It looks like I’m wearing jewelry, Dean. I want one around my thigh.”

"What?" Dean is breathless, red in the face. Sam keeps his eyes on Dean's in the mirror, then moves Dean's hand so it's around his throat again. He spares a second to admire how fragile he looks like this, covered with marks, Dean's big hand surrounding his neck. Dean can end his life so easily. It makes his breath hitch, his dick hardening again. He takes Dean's hand and slides it down his chest, then side and hip until it settles over his thigh.

"Right here, Dean. A pretty band like the one around my neck."

Dean groans, hides his face in Sam's shoulder and hooks both arms around Sam's waist, hugging him close. His breathing is harsh, loud and shaky, but he nods. A small kiss is put between Sam's shoulder blades, then Dean turns him around and kisses him for real. His hands come to grip under Sam's ass, and Sam jumps. Legs over Dean's hips so Dean can take them back to bed.

He gives Sam exactly what he asks for. An immaculate circle of hickeys around his left thigh. When they're done, Dean threads their fingers together, both hands entwined on either side of Sam's head, and he brings his lips down, right over the center of Sam's chest, over where his heart is drumming. He leaves a mark there, too.

It hurts the most.

**Sept. 12th.**

He's read a lot about withdrawal symptoms, and he's sure he's living through them. He's jittery, easily angered. His hands shake and he sweats and breathes hard and then not at all until he chokes and has to breathe again.

He fights the urge to go to communal showers again. He's sure stripping and staring at himself in the mirror won't grant him any favours. He knows all the marks are gone, he knows. He just needs to make sure.

His leg bounces, even as he digs his nails into his thigh and tries to keep it still, he has no idea what the lecture is about. He doesn't know it's over until one of his classmates approaches him and asks if he's alright.

He's not.

When he's in his room again, he shoves his cell under the pillow and resolvedly opens his book. He stares at the words until they blur, and he can't see anymore.

It's only fucking Wednesday and he wants the week to be over, but he has nothing to look forward to on the weekend, except more time alone to stop himself from calling.

_He won't answer and it'll hurt worse._

**Aug. 24th.**

John screams and curses, but it's the blank expression on Dean's face that breaks him. Sam shouts back, waiting, wishing for Dean to step in like he did so many times, calm them down so they can stop clawing at each other's throats. He doesn't, he stares at the floor near Sam's feet, his vibrant eyes dim and unseeing, his cheeks pale and his lips a thin line.

John tells him to never come back, and Dean doesn't flinch, Sam isn't sure if he's breathing.

"Fine. I won't."

It's the last thing he says to his father, and as he goes to gather his already packed duffle, he's glad for the anger burning in his blood. He's not sure he can leave otherwise. Dean won't look at him, but he pats Sam's shoulder twice and walks in front of him. Sam follows.

Dean says nothing. Doesn't blame Sam for wanting to leave, doesn't ask why Sam never told him. He keeps his eyes on the road and once they're in the bus station, he hands Sam a stash of money.

"Dean it’s--"

"No." Dean's reply is cutting, malicious but so hurt and broken that Sam doesn't find it in him to say anything back. He pockets the money, and they stay as they are; shrouded in bitter silence.

_Come with me._

He wants normal, but he also wants Dean. He can’t have both and it’s too late to back down.

Sam grits his teeth, opens the door. He hesitates for less than a second, but walks away, his body still sore from Dean's hands and lips and cock.

He listens to the car speeding away. He doesn't look back.

**Sept. 12th.**

The clock is loud. Tick Tock, Tick Tock like it's counting down. It fills Sam with a sense of finality, a kind of dread he doesn't remember feeling and a melancholy so deep it reminds him of drowning.

For all that the clock is obnoxious, it's horrendously slow. It ticks forever for only a few seconds to pass, and Sam's exhaustion and nervousness start to boil. His shaky hands fist, his breaths comes higher, his heart thuds.

He pulls his phone out, his thumb dialing the number.

The door bursts open, Brady walks in with a big smile on his face.

"Dude! I'm leaving!" He sounds too happy, and Sam doesn't really care but he feels obliged to ask.

"Where?"

"We're going to Vegas!"

"In the middle of the week?"

Brady rolls his eyes, he babbles about how he timed his classes so he’ll only miss two as he packs his bag. Sam mostly tunes him out, turning to stare at the numbers on his phone. He registers the sound of the door slamming, of the excited chatter outside his room. He presses Call.

It rings and rings and rings. Disconnects. Sam calls again and gets the same result. Dean's voice asking him to leave a message makes his eyes water. He locks the phone and places it on the nightstand. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he tells himself that he knew. But now he knows for sure, and he was right.

It does hurt worse. 

**Sept. 14th.**

He wakes up to persistent knocking on his door, like whoever is out there is trying to break the wood. Sam groans and turns to look at the clock. Seven thirty PM. He must’ve fallen asleep without meaning to after he came back from class.

The knocking stops, but scratching sounds start and Sam blinks at the door. Someone is trying to pick the lock. He curls his hand around the handle of the knife he keeps under his pillow and waits. 

The door opens.

Sam’s heart stops, his lungs constrict, his blood sings. 

Dean is there, wide-eyed and as breathless as Sam. 

The ticking that’s been stuck in his ears disappears, leaving them caught in a frozen second. 

Dean takes half a step, stumbles. Sam reaches out with both arms and they collide. He doesn’t hear the door closing, forgets where he is because Dean is kissing him and nothing else matters. 

It’s hot and desperate, Sam clings, whimpers when Dean tries to move back. Dean frames his face, hands gentle as he slows everything down, brushing his lips against Sam’s chastely. 

“Sammy.”

“You’re here,” Sam breathes between short presses of lips, “You’re really here, Dean.”

“I’m here.”

The next kiss is deeper, Dean pushes him onto the mattress and settles between his legs. Sam feels the tension and the ache bleed out of him as he sinks more into the familiarity of Dean’s body covering his, of their shared heat and smell. 

They don’t utter more words. Dean moves like fluid, gentle and slow but sure as he undresses them. Lays himself over Sam completely and starts mapping his skin with tongue and lips and unbearable tenderness. 

Sam writhes under him, moans with every kiss. He tugs at Dean’s hair, desperate for faster and harder, but Dean doesn’t comply. His lips ghosting over Sam’s jaw line, neck and shoulder and clavicles. Down to his navel and hip bones. He touches carefully, like he’s afraid he’ll break Sam. Kissing the insides of Sam’s thighs, under his knees, his calf then his ankle. He locks his eyes with Sam as he wraps his fingers around one ankle and plants a firm kiss to the arch of Sam’s foot. 

Sam’s breath stutters, heat rushes to his cheeks and Dean smiles at him. Open and free of blame and Sam doesn’t know if he deserves this but he relishes it. He doesn’t try to hurry Dean again. He closes his eyes and enjoys every touch, and when Dean finally enters him, he holds on with everything he is.

It’s slow, Dean rocks into him like the tide, soothing and sweet, so unlike the hurried fucks they’re used to sharing. Sam cries out with every perfectly aimed thrust, letting his moans be loud. He doesn’t care, he wants to be heard. Let everyone know that he’s here, in Dean’s arms.

“Sammy, open your eyes,” Dean says, nudging his nose against Sam’s. Sam complies, losing his breath at the sight of Dean’s wet eyes. Dean takes one of Sam’s hands, kisses over his wrist, then threads his fingers through Sam’s. He’s deliberate, like he’s trying to show Sam something. 

Sam squeezes his hand, looks up at Dean. Dean leans down, plants a firm kiss on Sam’s forehead, kisses his way to his ear. The air from his words tickles.

“These last longer, Sammy.” 

Something lodges itself in Sam’s throat and refuses to go down, makes him choked up and teary eyed. 

“Dean,” he says, “Dean. Dean, Dean.”

He’s got no other words to use, only this one, the most important, the most meaningful. He repeats it, over and over again. High pitched and embarrassing when Dean picks up the rhythm of his thrusts, whiny and deep when Dean leans down and kisses his neck. And always needy, because he’ll never not need Dean. 

His orgasm takes him by surprise, leaves him breathless. He clings to Dean, calls out to him and Dean crashes their lips together and kisses him deep and sloppy. Slow and gentle; achy. These kisses hurt more than the bruises, they leave their prints against Sam’s soul. They don’t heal like his skin, and flesh and bone. 

_These last longer._

They clean up and curl around each other after, Sam’s ear right over Dean’s heart, listening to his favourite melody. Dean’s fingers brushing through his hair, tugging once in a while and Sam melts into the moment. 

“So,” Dean starts, “we’re laying some ground rules here.” 

“Okay.”

“No turning off your phone,” Dean says, pinching Sam’s side. Sam swats at his hand half heartedly. 

“Sorry, I just…” 

“Yeah, I know.” And Dean does, Sam can hear it his tone, and the picking up of his heartbeat. 

“What else?” 

“Well, Sammy. Weekends are Dean time, so don’t tell me that you need to study when I come here, all right?”

Sam gets up, stares at Dean. He opens his mouth but he doesn’t know what to say.

“Unless you don’t want me to--”

Sam cuts him off with a kiss, doesn’t want to hear it. “Always want you here, Dean. Always want you.”

Dean smiles, brings a hand up to cup Sam’s cheek, his thumb brushing under Sam’s eye. “So that’s settled, little bro.” 

Sam nods fast, climbs up to straddle Dean, hooks his arms around Dean’s neck and kisses him. Sweet and slow so it lasts, careful so he remembers it.

_These last longer._

-End

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is love. I'm [Nisaki](https://nisaki-chan.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, come say hi!


End file.
